


this song is about you

by susiecarter



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Communication Failure, Drunk Sex, Extra Treat, Fuckbuddies, Idiots in Love, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Public Nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21834358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: Cullen couldn't decide, later, whether it had been good luck or bad that governed his fortunes in Wicked Grace.The second time, that is.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 43
Kudos: 241
Collections: Happy Belated Treatmas 2019





	this song is about you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir) in the [happy_belated_treatmas_2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/happy_belated_treatmas_2019) collection. 



> Obviously there was no possible way I could resist that stack of tropes for Dorian/Cullen! SO I DIDN'T TRY. :D I just hope you enjoy this ridiculous trope bingo of a fic, Linn, and happy Treatmas! ♥

Cullen couldn't decide, later, whether it had been good luck or bad that governed his fortunes in Wicked Grace.

The second time, that is.

He hadn't intended to agree to play it again. He probably should have had every deck of cards in Skyhold tracked down and set on fire, in fact. But he was tired, and he'd had a few drinks, and it was—

It was such an undeniable pleasure, to be able to relax into the warmth of good company. Of people who liked each other, or at least had begun to learn how to; who cared about each other; who fought for the sake of a thing they believed in, and did it together, at each other's shoulders.

Cullen hadn't had anything like that in a long, long time. And he could hardly lay claim to the strength to refuse it when it was offered to him.

He at least had the sense to play a bit more cautiously, this time. He won fewer hands, but he also lost fewer, and was quicker to fold when it became apparent that it would be wise. Safer for both his coin-purse and his wardrobe.

Though if he'd thought it through, he might have realized sooner it wasn't safe in the least, in other ways.

As it was, it only gradually dawned upon him that for every hand he managed not to lose, someone else was going to do it in his stead; and he felt an unsteady warning in his gut much too late to save him, as it became more and more obvious that the bulk of that displaced ill fortune was—Dorian's.

He tried not to look, at first. He did. It was—they were friends, almost. Or at least Cullen hoped so. Dorian seemed to enjoy board games very much, well enough to have agreed to play every single time Cullen managed to work round to asking him; but he employed that mild drawling charm of his right and left, with everyone from Chantry sisters to kitchen boys. It was almost impossible for Cullen to tell whether he _liked_ anyone, or disliked them, except on the rare occasions he'd been pushed far enough to get that particular way he got—glittering, disdainful, words as smooth as ever but wickedly sharpened at the edges.

He'd never done that to Cullen, at the very least. He'd been generous to Cullen, in point of fact. Teasing, but never cruel, and amusing, and now and then when Cullen least expected it, startlingly gracious. Kind.

Good company.

Cullen thought about him, now and then. Of course he did. Idly, that was all. The way he thought of people he knew, when something about them had caught his eye or stuck in his mind. Filling in the details, when he was—when he needed a bit of inspiration, when he was close but couldn't quite finish himself by his own hand alone.

Dorian a bit more often than most, perhaps.

But it didn't have anything to do with Dorian himself, in real life. When Cullen needed to confer with him about the Inquisitor's next mission, or had a question for him, or they had a game board set up between them—it was the furthest thing from his mind, then. It wasn't relevant; it had no bearing.

It—hadn't had any bearing.

But it was starting to, now that Dorian's shirt was off.

He was unselfconscious about it, of course. Stripped it off readily, with a showy little flourish, and let it drop to the floor. And Cullen—looked. And then caught himself, and jerked his eyes away, swallowed and cleared his throat and wondered why someone had stoked the fire so high. It was hot, that was all. It was too hot.

A new hand started. He'd missed it, somehow, the chance to withdraw at the opportune moment already past him. There were cards in front of him. He picked them up.

Cassandra cursed under her breath. Varric laughed, and told her to fold now and try not to spoil the fun, next hand.

Cullen hoped vaguely that she wouldn't listen; but she did. One bad hand out of the running. His own, he discovered, was regrettably decent.

Good luck: bad luck. Nobody else had a better one—he won.

And Dorian lost. Had foolishly failed to fold his way out of danger before the final round; acknowledged as much, and stood up with an easy smile, and tugged his belt loose. His robes had been the first to go, naturally. So they were no help at all in concealing the way his trousers immediately slid lower on his hips, and—Cullen shouldn't be looking at his hips. He needed to stop looking at Dorian's hips.

He fumbled for his tankard, sipped from it just for the excuse to gaze into the bottom of it and ensure his eyes wouldn't wander without telling him.

He should get up from the table, he thought. He needed to get up from the table.

He didn't move.

The Inquisitor and Josephine were leaning on each other, drunk and delighted; the noise they were making could only be described as "chortling".

And of course Dorian wasn't like Cullen. Was actually diametrically the opposite of Cullen in nearly every respect, but Cullen usually tried not to dwell on that. The point was, he lost and lost and lost, and didn't care at all. Didn't make even the slightest attempt to—to cover himself up, or bow out. Trousers followed belt, socks followed trousers; an intense round of furious debate between Josephine and Varric as to whether each sock qualified as a separate single article of clothing followed socks. Cullen stayed out of it, and drank a little more, and tried to ignore the relentless heat he could feel in his face.

A pointless argument anyway, he thought with petty meanness. Pointless, when a far thornier conundrum so obviously loomed large; because it would be a relief, when this was finally over, except it was probably only going to end once—once—

A hand was dealt. It was a blur.

And Dorian lost.

"Well!" he said, tone not displeased in the least. "I suppose that's me finished for the evening, isn't it?"

And then he stood up, and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his last remaining undergarment, and shoved it down, and—and took it off.

He had, Cullen thought distantly, a _beautiful_ cock.

He inclined his head, performed a lovely complicated little bow that was probably merely the done thing in Tevinter. And then he turned around, turned around and _bent over_ to gather up all the rest of his clothes where he'd piled them neatly beside his chair, and Cullen shouldn't be looking, he knew that, but he absolutely was.

Maker.

His breath was caught in his throat; his face burned; his heart pounded. He looked, and looked, and looked—and, counter to his dim half-formed expectations, he wasn't struck by lightning, nor did anyone call him to account for it and stop him. He wasn't sure he'd even been noticed at all, though he felt obscenely and shamefully obvious; as if the flames licking unstoppably just beneath his skin must be visible somehow, must give him away.

But apparently they hadn't.

Dorian spoke to Cole—whom Cullen hadn't known was here at all, but apparently had been standing in a corner watching them for who knew how long. He smiled, tipped his head back and laughed; shook his head. Bid a warm and effusive goodnight to the Inquisitor, the Iron Bull, Josephine and Varric and Cassandra—all of them in turn, Cullen realized with unforgivable slowness, only a moment before Dorian's gaze fell upon him.

He looked fond, a little amused. "Rather deep in your cups this evening, Commander," he said. "Perhaps you'd better call it a night yourself."

"Perhaps you're right," Cullen said, and somehow managed to scrape up a smile for him—but didn't rise, not right away, because that would only mean he'd end up walking out of here alongside Dorian. Dorian, who _still_ hadn't a stitch on.

"I like to think tonight's disgrace was simply the price I had to pay to fortune," Dorian added, "to trounce you utterly tomorrow—if you'll have time for a game?"

Cullen blinked at him, fumbling, tripped up; all he could think to say, for a long moment, was to express his bewilderment at the choice of _disgrace_ , when that was the last word he'd ever have applied to Dorian's bared body—but no, wait, Dorian meant the cards, that was all. "Yes," he managed, "yes, I'm sure I shall," and Dorian smiled at him, and he tried to cobble together the means to survive it and only half succeeded.

Dorian called out another general farewell to the room as a whole, and then turned round again. Turned round, and walked out, and was still entirely naked, clothes tucked neatly into the crook of one elbow. And Cullen, helpless, grimly resigned, looked.

It was a peculiar sensation, both gratification and torment, to perceive that his first dazed impression had been correct, and Dorian's ass was indeed as exceptionally well-formed as the rest of him.

It was all a bit of a fog, after that. Cullen extracted himself somehow, possibly by the simple expedient of stumbling away before anyone could stop him. He'd harbored the faint hope that stepping out of Herald's Rest and into the cool fresh evening air of the high mountains would—would be a dash of sanity, would put out the fire burning in him.

It didn't work.

He stumbled up the stairs, felt his way along the walltop to his own reassuringly solid office door; took the ladder a single deliberate rung at a time. And his own bed was as cold as ever, the hole in his roof gaping wide, but oh, he felt none of it in the least. He was alight, frantic, desperate. He fell back already struggling with his trousers, trying to jerk them down without even having unfastened them properly, shoving a hand in to grasp himself and panting dim clouds of breath into the chill. And he came just like that: rubbing himself off clumsily, one-handed, too rough, biting down into the heel of his free hand to keep quiet, and straining, with every piece of himself, for a thing he knew full well was wholly out of his reach.

He couldn't stop thinking about it, after.

It was utterly ridiculous. Ridiculous, embarrassing, and painfully juvenile besides—to be so _obsessed_ over it, as though he'd never seen another man stripped naked before; as though he hadn't spent half his life in Templar barracks, or various other sorts of unavoidably close quarters. As though his cock had only just discovered what it was for, and never mind that it had already spent a full year embarrassing him relentlessly when he was sixteen.

But it would pass. It had to. It wasn't as though it meant anything. It couldn't, after all. Dorian was a _mage_ , Cullen couldn't—board games, and befriending him, and even thinking about him sometimes the way Cullen did, were one thing. But he couldn't—that didn't mean he was going to—

He didn't even know which made it worse, which troubled him more.

For there was a part of his mind that remembered Kirkwall all too vividly, remembered Meredith and her surety and how beautifully tempting it had been, how desperately he'd wanted to be able to tell himself that nothing was wrong; that he'd closed his eyes to things he should have stopped, lives he should have saved, and there was nothing he could do to make up for it. There was a time in his life when—when it might as easily have been Dorian's suffering that Cullen had turned his back to, and he'd have done it all the same. He'd have stood by and let it happen. He couldn't pretend otherwise. It made him sick to think of, and there was no possible excuse for it; and that he should find now that he wanted to prevail upon Dorian for—for his own self-gratification, of all things? It was repulsive, obscene. It was impossible.

And yet, too, there was also a part of him that knew he couldn't ascribe all his reluctance to well-earned guilt alone.

He still dreamed of it sometimes. The Circle Tower, Uldred's prison. The unbearable, terrifying power that had held him, illusions playing out before him that he couldn't have distinguished from truth if his life depended on it—and in a sense it had. Somewhere deep in the heart of him, he still feared and dreaded that power, endlessly, helplessly; and attempting to set aside the lyrium that had fed his Templar's abilities was only going to make it worse, he knew. Because at least when he'd been a full Templar, he'd had some kind of defense against it, some hope of bringing his own will to bear and snuffing it out. But without the lyrium—

He was caught between the two, unable to dismiss either, equally and painfully ashamed of both. So nothing would happen. Nothing _could_ happen, and even if there were to come to be some chance of it, he wouldn't want it to.

It meant nothing, and it would pass.

It was just that he couldn't stop thinking about it, that was all.

It should have been a relief to meet Dorian the next day, and the next day after that, for a game in the courtyard, and find him clothed. Because of course he was—because even beautiful, shameless Dorian needed to at least lose at Wicked Grace before he'd go wandering round Skyhold naked.

But instead that only seemed to make it worse. Cullen couldn't stop looking at Dorian's skin wherever it _did_ show: at his forearms whenever he pushed his sleeves up, or his slim strong wrists when he didn't; at his hands, the hollow of his throat, the barest hint of collarbone if his collar was cut wide enough for it. He was suddenly, terribly, stupidly aware of how little clothes really amounted to, in the scheme of things. That only a couple layers of cloth, a bit of leather—easy enough to cut through with a halfway decent blade, he couldn't help thinking, and then wished desperately he hadn't thought it—were keeping Dorian not-naked. Hardly anything at all.

And he couldn't tell himself not to imagine what was beneath Dorian's clothes, because "imagine" wasn't the word for it anymore: he _knew_ now. It would have taken imagination, before. It would have taken effort, there would have been blanks to fill in. He could've caught himself doing it, and made himself stop, and turned his mind elsewhere. But when it was a memory instead—barely a flicker of a thought, and the whole vision was before him anew, or as good as, in all its glorious unrestrained detail.

He was losing his mind.

He'd never been a man of particularly strong will, not in the ways that counted. Stubborn, yes, he'd admit to that readily enough. But easily swayed: by fear, by anger, by hatred and complacency and deluded self-importance. By temptation.

And there was only so great a degree to which he could rely upon his self-restraint before a tremendous amount of ale became very tempting indeed.

It wasn't like lyrium, he discovered.

The lyrium made him feel like—well, like a Templar. Better, stronger. Clean. As if nothing could touch him; as if he couldn't be stained. An illusion, and he knew it, though sometimes he was unconscionably desperate for it anyway.

But ale wasn't like that. Ale, wine, whatever horrific burning concoction it was that Bull kept tricking him into downing instead—none of it made Cullen feel himself changed, or improved. The trick was that it made it feel as though it didn't matter that he _wasn't_. It made it feel as though that were all right.

Another illusion, but of a different sort, and in some ways the more comforting of the two.

Bull handed him another tankard, and clapped him on the shoulder. Cullen sighed a little, but it was mostly for show. This was going to taste awful, and he was probably going to cough a lot, which always made Bull snicker, but then—

Then he'd feel warm, and pleasant, and everything difficult or uncomfortable that he didn't want to think about would get a little further away.

He drank.

And it worked, just as he'd known it would.

Once he was done coughing, he beamed at Bull lopsidedly, and then let his head fall back further still. Oh, that felt good. He rolled his shoulders, one and then the other, and that felt good too. Apparently he held them kind of tensely most of the time; he wondered dimly why he did that. This was much better.

"There you go," Bull said approvingly. "Much better that time!"

And then, as if from quite far away, Cullen heard someone say, "I can't _believe_ this. You started without me, didn't you?" And he knew, even before he tipped his head to the side to look, that it was Dorian.

Wasn't hard, he thought contentedly. It was Dorian's voice, obviously—the smoothness of it, that lovely rich intonation he had. Like he was always just about to make a joke; and when he was irritated with you, if he'd gone cool and gleaming, then it was like the joke was always on you, and he wouldn't tell you what it was. But like this? All warm, like this? The joke was on him, and he was inviting you to laugh.

Cullen loved listening to his voice, when it was like that.

So he didn't need to look, was the point. But he did it anyway. Because he could, and because like this, it felt like it was all right that he wanted to.

Dorian was saying something to Bull, and laughing, even as Bull shook his head and made a face and started to answer. Cullen had missed it, but he didn't mind. He wasn't interested in paying attention to words right now anyway. He'd just look at Dorian for a while. Like this, while it wasn't so obviously wrong to do it; because it was going to be wrong again, he knew, once he was sober, and then he'd have to stop.

And Dorian looked nice all the time, but lantern-light was particularly kind to him. It made everything about him seem even warmer than usual, burnished, gilt-edged.

So Cullen sat there, and drank a little more, and looked at Dorian. Looked, and looked, and looked, until he felt at least as drunk on that unprecedented indulgence as on whatever it was Bull had been pouring for him.

He looked for a long time; but it didn't feel half long enough. Which was why it came as such a surprise to him, when he realized Dorian was looking back at him across the table—because Bull was gone, and so was nearly everyone else.

"All right," Dorian said, gentle, "I suspect you'd better make that cup your last, Commander."

Cullen considered this. He'd slowed his pace a bit, especially since Bull had left, and had begun to get the sense that clarity yet lurked in the distance, and would start creeping closer soon. He didn't like that, didn't want it. He wanted to keep looking at Dorian. And he _would_ rather end the evening looking his fill—or as close to it as he could get, if still damnably far—than having the cold heavy understanding that he couldn't, shouldn't, and must stop settle back into place over him.

He shivered a little just thinking about it, and shook his head. And then he blinked up at Dorian and said, "Yes. Yes, I—I suppose you're right."

Dorian helped him up out of his chair. Cullen didn't need the help, not really; he could, he discovered, stand up straight, and the room hardly swam at all. Just tilted a little. Entirely manageable.

But Dorian was warm against him, warm and steady, and his arm strong around Cullen's back as he drew Cullen's own arm over his shoulders. He was close, and smiling, and Cullen wanted very badly to lean over and press his forehead to Dorian's temple, brush his nose along the line of Dorian's cheek—but had a dim sense that for some reason that would be unwise.

The air outside was bracing as usual. Dorian shuddered under Cullen's arm, pointed and deliberately dramatic, and murmured something about how it had come to this, that he should be trapped in the high mountains in the middle of nowhere, watching the future of Thedas take shape round him. Cullen sighed, and let his eyes fall shut, and drank in Dorian's voice without shame.

They took the stairs to the walltop carefully, but unhesitatingly, and without incident. Cullen's office door yielded, after a bit of a tussle with a sticky latch. And then they were inside.

Dorian was still holding him up, but they'd stopped moving. No one spoke. And normally, Cullen thought happily, this sort of silence would have felt awkward to him; he'd have been wracked with self-consciousness for allowing it, he'd have fumbled for words and thanked Dorian clumsily to let him know he was permitted to leave, and then he'd have closed the door behind him and pretended his face wasn't hot.

But right now? Right now, he was still that critical fraction more drunk than not. And Dorian was there beside him, and Cullen did so love to look at him.

Dorian cleared his throat. "Commander," he said gently, and Cullen blinked, and realized that his hand was grazing Dorian's jaw, the side of his throat—that that, maybe, was what had prompted Dorian to address him.

"Sorry," Cullen heard himself say, and didn't move his hand. "Sorry. It's just that you're so beautiful, that's all. It's almost intolerable."

Dorian made a half-swallowed sound, low, and didn't move either. "How very kind of you to say, Cullen," he murmured after a moment, soft and fond and startlingly serious. "If you remember this when you're sober, I imagine you'll feel terribly awkward about it; so I hope you also remember what I'm about to tell you." He smiled, just a little, and reached up, and curled his hand around the nape of Cullen's neck, steady and warm. "I appreciate a good compliment no matter where it comes from. But I'll admit that one is a particular pleasure, from you. Thank you."

Cullen hummed, in lieu of an answer that would have required words from him, and rubbed his thumb absently along the line of Dorian's jaw.

"And now," Dorian added, lower still, "I'm afraid I must ask you to stop looking at me like that."

Cullen frowned a little, and slid his thumb further, almost to the underside of Dorian's chin. "What?" he said. "Why?" As if there were any other way to look at Dorian; as if it were possible to look at Dorian with anything less than the mortifyingly powerful consciousness that he was so terribly lovely—

"Because if you carry on doing it," Dorian said to him, "then I may prove unable to stop myself from kissing you."

Oh.

"Oh," Cullen said. "Quite right. That won't do at all."

And Dorian's face changed: the smile smaller, lopsided, and something remote and faraway in his eyes. "Yes," he murmured. "I rather thought you'd say something like—"

"No, that won't do at all," Cullen repeated. "I've been waiting such a long time."

It made perfect sense to him, in the moment. Because he _had_ been waiting such a long time; he'd been making himself wait, not letting himself kiss Dorian at all, though he couldn't quite remember why it had seemed so essential not to. And now—he could hardly let Dorian swoop in and wrest away his chance before he'd even managed to allow himself to take it.

There was only going to be one opportunity for Cullen to kiss Dorian first.

Dorian seemed to see it in him, somehow. His brow drew down, and his eyes widened a little, large and dark in his face; his breath caught. Cullen moved his hand, thumbed at the corner of Dorian's mouth where that breath had passed. And then he held Dorian's face there, and kissed him.

Cullen had never kissed anyone before. Not like this, anyway. He'd been kissed, a few times. But there had always been a good reason not to let it get much further than that. Oh, how very seriously he'd taken his vows, the Chantry, his own ill-defined purity, when he was younger. After the Circle, the illusions that had tormented him, visions of pride and greed and gluttony, _lust_ —he hadn't wanted to; the idea alone had made him sick, for a while. And then there had been Meredith, Meredith and Templars who should have been better, mages Cullen had sworn silently he'd never ever touch, not like that, not ever like that—

But Cullen wasn't a Templar, not anymore. And Dorian wasn't a Circle mage, and wouldn't have been afraid of him even if he had been a Templar still.

Cullen had hardly let himself imagine what it might be like. It had seemed so wildly improbable, and even a hint of realism took all the pleasure out of hoping for it—because no doubt he'd be clumsy, brutish; make a fool of himself, and Dorian would put up with it because he was always so kind to Cullen, but that was about the best it got.

Except now he was doing it, and it was the easiest thing in the world. It was glorious, tremendously satisfying. The logistics had always seemed so bewildering, the results hardly worth the trouble—he hadn't understood how much he'd _want_ it, how overwhelmingly good it would feel to get it. He wanted to press his mouth to Dorian's, to lick the wet curve of Dorian's lip, to hold Dorian's face in his hands and touch it all over. And he was doing it, and it felt spectacular.

Dorian made a sound into Cullen's mouth, and however lovely it was to kiss someone, Cullen discovered, it was better still to be kissed _back_. Abruptly everything got a good deal messier, hotter—Dorian's hand tightened on the nape of Cullen's neck, and he did something dreadfully obscene with his tongue that made Cullen dizzy, and then he _moved_ against Cullen, and oh, oh—

Dorian broke away. Cullen made a protesting noise and tried to drag him back, and Dorian laughed a little, low in his throat, rich and warm, and held him off gently with a forearm against his chest.

"Shh," he said, "shh, easy now," and Cullen flushed hot and felt himself shiver, and watched one of Dorian's eyebrows draw itself up in an intrigued arch. "Oh, really?"

"I," Cullen said, and then didn't know what else to add, and swallowed hard.

As if there were anything to add. As if he had any real idea—

Dorian's eyes went heavy-lidded. "Hmm," he murmured consideringly, and tilted his head to the side. "You see, by all rights this is an absolutely terrible idea, Commander. I ought to stop you right now, and tell you that you don't want to do this—that you wouldn't, probably, if you hadn't been letting Bull pour your drinks all night. And I'd get you up that ladder somehow or other, and I'd put you to bed, like the polite and considerate gentlemen I have occasionally aspired to be when I grow up."

Cullen swallowed again. "But?" he pressed, feeling very daring indeed for so much as suggesting that there might be an alternative.

"But," Dorian agreed, very low, "I'm still rather drunk myself. And to be perfectly honest, you're intolerably beautiful yourself, now and then—much more often than I'd expected of you, when I first met you. This is still a terrible idea, mind you," he added. "It's just that I find I can't quite bring myself to care, when I could start kissing you again instead."

" _Yes_ ," Cullen blurted, because oh, there was nothing he wanted more in the world than to be kissing Dorian again.

And Dorian grinned at him, and his gaze was hot and dark and just a little wicked, roving over Cullen's face. "Well," he said. "If you insist," and he drew Cullen in again, and licked his mouth open, sweet and teasing, and then bit Cullen's lip so hard it throbbed with shocking, startling heat.

Because—right. Of course he was going to—of course he wanted to—

Cullen squeezed his eyes shut, skin prickling, and as aware as he'd ever been of Dorian's clothes, how many of them there were and weren't between himself and Dorian's naked body, he was suddenly just as aware of his own: of metal and fur and leather against him, and Dorian's clever hands were moving over it right now, but they weren't going to stay there.

Kissing, he'd done, at least to some extent. But not anything like this. He knew perfectly well what it entailed, a whole myriad of ways it could be done—he'd heard all the details anyone could ever ask for and then some, both good and bad, cautions and rueful comedies of error and heartfelt exhortations, just listening to ordinary talk in the barracks over the years.

And he wanted to. He wanted to, very much, and he might never have the chance again, or at least not with Dorian. Not with Dorian, who was his friend, who was kind to him; who would, Cullen felt suddenly sure, make it very good. Not with Dorian, who was so beautiful, who was—

Who was already pushing Cullen's cloak from his shoulders, and was tugging him closer with a hand tucked very firmly into his belt.

Cullen felt horribly clumsy, fumbling for the straps of his armor, struggling to slide the pieces free—as if he didn't put it on and take it off every single day, because suddenly it was as though he'd never seen the stuff before in his life, as if he were doing it with his eyes closed.

But Dorian only laughed and helped him, Cullen's fumbling half-disguised by the way their fingers kept tangling, by the way Dorian kept pausing to kiss him some more: his mouth, his jaw, or taking him by the chin and turning his face up and away to bare the line of his throat, for what appeared to be the sheer pleasure of biting it. Not that Cullen had any particular objection.

And then at last it was all dealt with, and the wrapped tunic Cullen wore over it—tugged down out of the way impatiently, at first—was discarded alongside. His shirt remained, and the belt Dorian had already slyly yanked half-undone, and his trousers; but he felt suddenly, heart pounding in his chest, that it wasn't enough. That armor wasn't the only thing Dorian had just watched be peeled from him, and that he'd better cover himself back up somehow.

But Dorian didn't give him the chance. Dorian smiled at him, sweet, eyes heavy, and said, "Mm, much better," and then stepped in close against him, and—touched him.

Cullen had spent so much time looking at him. But not touching him, nor being touched by him. A brush of fingertips as they worked together to clear a game board away; the occasional hand on Dorian's arm or back, unthinking, guiding him almost reflexively through a doorway or into Cullen's office.

But now—it was like Wicked Grace all over again, sudden overwhelming abundance Cullen wouldn't even have thought to ask for. Dorian's hands sliding up under Cullen's shirt where it had come untucked, skin to skin, and all Dorian's strong lithe weight against him. The pressure of Dorian's knee, nudging—nudging his thighs apart, and even before Dorian dropped one hand down to work it into the open waist of Cullen's trousers, Cullen was gasping, chest heaving, already shuddering with it.

No one had touched Cullen so thoroughly, or for so long at a stretch, in—in quite some time, Cullen thought dimly.

And they'd only just begun.

He closed his eyes, dizzied by the very idea. And Dorian moved against him, just a little, and made a small satisfied sound; chuckled warmly into his ear, and smoothed a hand over his face, his chest, gentle and soothing.

"I should've guessed you wouldn't indulge often," Dorian murmured. "A compliment of its own, Commander, that you should give in to so slight a persuasion as all the charm I failed to muster this evening—"

" _Slight_ ," Cullen said, choked by it, half wanting to laugh; he fumbled for Dorian with both hands, eyes still closed, and kissed him soundly, deeply.

Slight—hardly that. He'd borne the brunt of Dorian's _charms_ , as Dorian put it, for weeks and weeks: the endless blaze of them, thrown off by Dorian at every moment with thoughtless and relentless generosity. Really, it was no wonder at all that at last he had surrendered, and was defeated.

"Well," Dorian said, a little unevenly, when at last Cullen released him. "If I had been inclined to harbor doubts about your enthusiasm—and I hadn't," he added, shifting his thigh pointedly against Cullen's cock where it was already embarrassingly heavy in his trousers, undeniably eager, "you'd have put them quite decidedly to rest."

"Good," Cullen told him.

Dorian grinned at him. And then touched his face again, and the grin softened into something sweeter, though no less bright; almost hard to look at. "And I hope you're equally convinced of my own," he said.

Cullen looked at him, and bit his lip.

"Because I'd like nothing better," Dorian added, more quietly, "than to make you feel very, very good, for a little while. If you'd like to let me."

Kind, Cullen thought. So often, and so unexpectedly; kind.

And that was what lingered, in the end. Cullen had always had the general impression, formed long ago and never countered by experience, that this sort of thing was inevitably a bit distasteful: cheap, tawdry. Dirtying, one way or another. He'd just wanted it enough not to mind—or at least not to let it stop him.

But it wasn't like that at all.

It was lovely. Which felt like it should have been the wrong word for something that was also so full of _heat_ , such unbearable shivering friction; so intent, and so desperate, and so _much_. And yet Cullen couldn't help but want to apply it.

There was something profoundly gratifying about it, too. He loved Dorian's hands on him, of course—the way Dorian touched his mouth, and his thighs, and his cock; Dorian's clever teasing fingers, the strength in them, the little twist Dorian put in his wrist that made Cullen pant and swear and thrust up to chase his hand every time.

But it was equally satisfying, in an entirely different way, to discover that _he_ could make _Dorian_ feel good.

Because he could. He could, and did. He was slow to start, distracted by the things Dorian was doing to him. But he hadn't forgotten Dorian's lovely cock, the sight of it blazoned in his memory, and he realized dimly that here, here at last was his chance to get a hand on it. And, a hazy plan of battle already forming, he wasn't going to waste any more time.

Dorian knew pleasure. That much was obvious, even before the Tevinter tendency toward excess, indulgence, was entered into consideration. And that Cullen's inexperienced but sincere efforts were enough to make Dorian's eyes fall shut, to make his head tip back—that Dorian should be so wonderfully hard under Cullen's hand, and move into his every stroke so readily—it made Cullen flush not with shame but with gladness, smug and bright and unfamiliar.

He grew bolder, and tried harder. And Dorian rewarded him for it beautifully: gasped against his cheek, his throat, wet and openmouthed; shuddered against him, cursing, hand faltering a little on Cullen's own cock; and even—even begged for it, once, low-voiced and wild, shivering.

If he'd planned on any of this, he'd have been thinking it might help cure him of all his mindless wanting. That it would be fine. Pleasing, perhaps, in the most superficial sense, but grim and awkward. That he'd wish he hadn't done it, afterward. That he'd feel stained, and there would be no temptation left in it.

But it wasn't like that at all.

So in retrospect, he couldn't claim that it surprised him when they ended up doing it again.

It was twice that night alone. Not on purpose, exactly; but they'd spent themselves at offset enough that Cullen had been hard again by the time he was done with Dorian, and, well.

Dorian was generous with him, as always. And of course Cullen couldn't fail to thank him for it in kind.

But then, two evenings later, Cullen had almost managed to strip his armor off without thinking of Dorian's hands undertaking the task more than half a dozen times—and then there was a tap on his office door, and he opened it, and discovered it was Dorian. Dorian, looking at him with dark steady eyes, mouth parted just a little, breath already coming quick.

For an instant, Cullen thought about clearing his throat. Asking Dorian politely why he was there, whether there was anything wrong; as though he couldn't guess, couldn't imagine. Forcing Dorian to come up with some excuse, the Inquisitor's business or a question only Cullen could answer, and watching him leave—

It would have been wiser than stepping back to let him in. Than allowing him to advance one long stride and catch Cullen's shirt in his hands, than drawing him in by the shoulders and kissing him.

But Cullen had never claimed to be a wise man.

It didn't mean the same thing to Dorian that it meant to Cullen. It couldn't possibly. Dorian had no idea that this was the first time Cullen had been in a position to fuck anyone more than once, never mind at all—that this was the first time Cullen had wanted to try badly enough to actually do it, badly enough that he couldn't _not_. And Cullen was in no hurry to enlighten him.

Because Dorian had probably done this with everyone he'd ever met and liked the look of. Twice. For all Cullen knew, he'd done it with the Black Divine himself. Dorian was beautiful, and knew what he was doing, and was so—so comfortable in himself, so thoroughly well-positioned in his own skin. Surely anyone he'd ever asked had said yes a thousand times over; surely he'd had everyone he wanted in the least.

And whatever it was that had made Dorian decide Cullen was worth a try, whether it was whim or whimsy—that Cullen was indeed handsome enough to suit, and not too clumsy for him to bear, and Dorian did like him, after all—it was fine. However long it lasted, before Dorian was finished with him, Cullen would have the memories of it all forever: Dorian, in all his unselfconscious grace, his laughter and sly sweetness and undeniable loveliness. More than enough for Cullen to warm himself with even after his bed was long since empty again.

It would be fine.

Obviously he had to exercise some degree of caution. Not press, not presume. Not ask too much. They were friends, and that hadn't changed—they still greeted each other with warmth, met in the courtyard to play games at which Dorian cheated shamelessly. And Cullen took every care that that should remain the same; that Dorian shouldn't feel his friendship had been called into play, or plied upon to insist on anything he ought not to be required to give.

Because there was so much Cullen might have asked of him, if he were selfish enough to. Dorian was giving him so much already, and still, still, he couldn't help wanting more. And Dorian would have every right to refuse him and go, and never come back, and that above all was something Cullen hoped desperately to avoid.

It was harder to do, indefinably, while he was coming off the lyrium.

He hated that. Something about it just made him so—so terribly, frustratingly _needy_. He felt both Dorian's presence and his absence so much more acutely, when he was within the grip of one of the bad days, the troughs of low mood that felt so endlessly difficult to navigate while he was amid one of them. He wanted Dorian's hands on him, Dorian's voice in his ear, Dorian in his office and on his desk and in his bed; and he could get all of it, while they were fucking, which was hardly a painful price to pay.

But he couldn't fuck Dorian every hour of the day and night, however much he'd have liked to. And he knew it was for the best that he couldn't, and didn't try. Dorian had work to do, just like Cullen. Sometimes he was gone for days at a time, venturing out with the Inquisitor, and there was no doubt that they were both better off for it. The pain in Cullen's head and chest, the shakes in his hands, grew at irregular intervals, sometimes much too intense to hide—he became relieved, profoundly and desperately, that there were spans where he could be certain Dorian wouldn't come and find him that way. It didn't bear thinking about, that Dorian should be looking for an evening's pleasure and end up nursemaiding him instead.

He should've known his luck would run out.

There wasn't any warning. He couldn't stop thinking that, when it happened: there hadn't been any warning. As if he could plead his case; as if, were he only able to make the right arbiter aware of the unfairness of it, he could have the whole sequence of events rescinded, struck from the books.

But as it was, he was curled in on himself in one corner of his office, shivering helplessly, with the case tipped sideways on the floor in front of him, when the door opened. He didn't even know who it was, at first, couldn't force the figure into focus. Maybe they wouldn't turn, wouldn't see him here. Maybe they'd leave.

And then a voice said sharply, " _Cullen_ ," and he knew he was lost.

He knew that voice, too, he realized, a beat too late.

He startled, but Dorian was already in front of him by then, kneeling down, touching his face, his forehead, with warm steady hands.

"Cullen," he said again, more evenly. "Cullen, what's happened?"

Cullen blinked, and wet his lips. "You," he said. "You went with the Inquisitor. You aren't here."

And for a moment, the saying of it buoyed him. He shouldn't exactly _hope_ that hallucinations had set in, and yet it was by far to be preferred to the thought that Dorian was in fact in front of him, was seeing him reduced to this—

"I do hate to disappoint you," Dorian said, brisk, "but as it turns out we were able to head back earlier than expected. Our dear Inquisitor can be wonderfully quick sometimes, cutting through these knots we run into out there." He smiled a little, slanting, though his eyes were very grave. "Thought I might surprise you. But you seem to have a bit of a surprise for me instead."

Cullen shut his eyes, and let his head tip back against the wall.

"Look, just tell me what it is. If you're hurt somewhere, or ill. I'll have a healer brought up—"

"No," Cullen said, too loud in his own ears. "No, it isn't—they can't do anything for me." He wet his lips again, and swallowed. "I'm actually doing rather well, really."

"Is that so," Dorian murmured, and it wasn't a question. "Because in that case I shouldn't like to think what you'd consider doing poorly."

Cullen laughed a little, though it wasn't really funny, and angled his chin in a stuttering jerk toward the case on the floor in front of him. "Couldn't take it."

Dorian followed the motion—saw the case, and turned it carefully upright, and looked inside, and then went very still.

"It's the shakes," Cullen went on, and now suddenly he could hardly hear himself at all—had to fight the urge to repeat it, until it came out louder than the song of the lyrium in his ears. "Cold hands. I wanted it. I'd have taken it if I could. Couldn't pick up the vial, though. Kept dropping it, and then I—then I knocked the case over—"

"Shh," Dorian said, terribly gentle. "Hush. It's all put to rights now. All right?"

Cullen turned his face away, and closed his stinging eyes.

He needed to say yes. He needed to say yes, it was all right; and he needed to thank Dorian, and tell him he could go. Because obviously Cullen wasn't in any sort of shape to fuck, not right now—nor even to play a board game, for that matter. And Dorian would hardly want to, anyway, looking at him curled up here, sweating and chilled at the same time, pale and useless and confused.

So he needed to say yes, and then Dorian would go.

Except he didn't want Dorian to go. And like this, at his worst, his weakest, he wasn't sure he could make himself do what he ought.

Sounds. A soft thump—the case, no doubt, carefully lifted and set on his desk; the shush and rasp of Dorian's clothing as he moved.

The door next, probably, Cullen thought. And then his dilemma would be solved, by Dorian's hand, and he could carry on being as weak as he liked, securely alone again.

Except then the noise that was Dorian came nearer, and a warm hand closed around Cullen's wrist, an arm curling around his shoulders.

"Come on, up you get," Dorian murmured, sweet, coaxing.

And Cullen could do nothing but obey that voice. He felt slow and dull, and dimly bewildered. The room seemed impossibly large, and Dorian was—Dorian couldn't mean to make him cross it, surely? Not the whole thing?

But he was drawn along a step at a time. Dorian steadied him, with apparently infinite patience, and held Cullen's icy hands in his own.

The ladder, too, seemed a vast and impossible obstacle. Surely here, Cullen thought, Dorian would give up, and let him lower himself to the floor again, and leave him to rest there.

But Dorian crowded him against it, and made him set his foot upon the lowest rung—caged him in, Dorian's arms close about him and Dorian's chest to his back, climbing with him as soon as there was room enough, one rung lower than he.

"What a dreadful arrangement you have here, my friend," Dorian murmured in his ear, when they were nearly to the top. "Really, why in the world would you do this to yourself?"

Cullen huffed out a breath. "That's the point," he admitted, tongue clumsy in his mouth. "Test. If I can't get up the ladder—"

"—you deserve to fall and break your head open on the floor?" Dorian inquired, very mild. "What a fascinating philosophy."

Cullen stumbled a little, stepping off, but Dorian caught him and held him till he found his feet. Helped him over to the bed, too. Cullen dropped down on the edge of it and let himself fall back, let his eyes close. He was so tired of this. He almost wished he'd managed to take what lyrium he had after all. Sometimes he thought he _should_ take it. It had felt important to make a commitment to the Inquisition, to leave the flaws and failures and chains of his Templar past behind—but it was selfish in its own way, wasn't it, to prize his own feelings and self-worth over the strength a commander needed?

He ought to take it. Just until the Inquisition was over with, that was all. Then he could throw the case away, the vials, all of it. Then he could be free, and it wouldn't matter if it made him sick. It wouldn't matter if it killed him. No one would be relying on him, and so it would be all right.

And then, as he lay there, farther away every moment and more than half asleep, something changed.

He couldn't name it, at first. It was only a feeling in the air; not right, altered, unnatural. He tensed all over, helpless, and came up off the bed with a shudder, and knew it for what it was, then: magic.

He reached, reflexive, for the place inside himself, the cool blue light—the exercise of will that would save him. Except there was nothing, he discovered, dimly horrified. The font had run dry, and he was empty, and would be overwhelmed till there was nothing left of him—

"Cullen. _Cullen_."

His wrists hurt. Someone was squeezing them. Not cruelly, just firmly. Cullen blinked, once and then again. He was breathing too hard, too fast, and his throat, his mouth, had gone dry. He'd been reaching for a sword he didn't have with one hand, swinging out with the other—swinging out, he realized, at Dorian.

Who'd caught his arms, and was holding him tightly, carefully, and watching him with unreadable eyes.

"I was going to make it a little warmer, that's all," Dorian said quietly, and then raised his eyebrows. "There's a hole in your roof, you know."

Cullen bit the inside of his cheek, and for a moment he couldn't breathe at all.

"Dorian," he said, hoarse—meaning to explain, except he didn't know what he could possibly say.

And then Dorian's grip gentled all at once, and Dorian let go of one of his arms and touched his face instead. "I'm sorry," Dorian said. "I didn't think. Here, come on. Come on, Cullen. Lie down. It's all right."

Cullen, stunned silent, let himself be settled back down across the bed. And even then, Dorian didn't go. He was doing something else, now, he was—he was taking Cullen's boots off, Cullen realized dimly. One, and then the other. He was settling Cullen a little more comfortably, and pulling the blankets up over him; and then he sat down on the edge of the bed and closed Cullen's frigid hands in his own again.

He was going to leave, Cullen thought. Of course he was.

But somehow he wasn't doing it yet. And he didn't; or at least he hadn't, by the time Cullen fell asleep.

Somehow, miraculously, that wasn't the end of it.

Cullen half expected that it would be; waited, dread cold in the pit of his stomach, to discover that it had been.

But Dorian showed up again a day later, and smiled at him warmly—leaned in close, and plucked teasingly at the drape of his wrapped tunic, and murmured something wonderfully filthy about what Cullen _ought_ to be using that desk for in a minute, if he had any sense at all.

So Dorian—hadn't minded. Dorian had looked after him, and wasn't holding it against him; didn't feel put upon or burdened. And didn't seem to have told anyone about the lyrium, for that matter, though Cullen couldn't have blamed him if he'd gone straight to the Inquisitor with it.

It was strange. Cullen felt obscurely wrongfooted. He supposed some part of him had always been inclined to like rules—to like having them, and following them. And he'd thought he'd understood which ones were governing this thing he and Dorian were doing, but it seemed he'd been mistaken.

Another surprise: mistakes, in Cullen's experience, were usually terrible. Painful, weighty, and he'd never learned how to let go of them.

But this one—this one, he found, was a pleasure.

Aside from errors on Cullen's part, the other thing Cullen had always assumed might spell an end to their—arrangement—was Dorian himself. That Dorian would be able to keep himself entertained with Cullen for a while, but sooner or later he'd grow bored, and beg off with a friendly apology, and that would be it.

But in addition to being surprisingly forgiving, Dorian also proved quite inventive.

There were all sorts of things he wanted to try, and was willing to demonstrate on Cullen with remarkable attention to detail. There were parts of the body Cullen had never previously associated with sex, even in theory—the blades of his shoulders, the insides of his wrists, the backs of his knees—that were rendered suddenly alive with unforeseen potential. He learned to touch Dorian everywhere, and to let Dorian touch _him_ everywhere, because no matter how improbable it might seem, it was inevitably going to feel spectacular.

Dorian came up with games, challenges. That they couldn't touch themselves until they were able to touch each other again; easy enough, Cullen had thought, until Dorian was gone for almost two weeks, in the Emerald Graves with the Inquisitor. That they must play each other for the right to do such-and-such a thing, or to make the other lie still, or even bound, while they did what they pleased.

"Next time, let's see. Oh, here's a thought, we could pretend," Dorian suggested once, idle, as they caught their breath after one particularly intense round in Cullen's bed. "Do you like that sort of thing? I've had a bit of fun with it, now and then. You know—the Tevinter magister and his untrained bed-slave. The cocky mage-student and his no-nonsense Templar guard who teaches him a lesson." Dorian waggled his eyebrows—and then went still, no doubt remembering exactly how different Templars were here in the south, but Cullen found himself smiling anyway, unhurt, amused.

"I know better than to argue with you," Cullen said, "when you have an idea you like."

"Clever man," Dorian said warmly, and kissed him. Kissed him, and palmed his ass contentedly, and then slid a finger down—

"Five minutes," Cullen pleaded with him. "Have mercy."

"Oh, all right." Dorian made a show of easing his hands back up, only to slide them admiringly up to curve around Cullen's hips. "Or two mage-students trying not to get caught in the library, if that's your fancy. I admit I can't help but remember the rather less appealing reality, whenever I've tried that one." He glanced up and smiled at Cullen, lopsided and self-deprecating. "My first time."

Cullen's heart contracted, unbidden, in his chest.

"Oh," Cullen heard himself say.

And, sure enough, the next thing Dorian did was raise his eyebrows and say, "And yours?"

Cullen couldn't help but consider trying to come up with a lie. There was a chance he could get away with it, perhaps; Dorian didn't know enough about southern Templars to call him on minor implausibilities. Or he could make up something transparent, just to distract Dorian—tell him the lavishly obscene story of how every initiate Templar got fucked by each of their fellows in the middle of the barracks, one after another, before being hauled upright and having their armor put on them for the first time. Dorian would like that.

But Dorian was rather good at lying himself, or at least at not telling the truth, when he wanted to be. He'd spot a deception, most likely. And he was stubborn; trying to distract him might not work at all, and indeed might only serve to make him more curious.

So Cullen braced himself, and drew a slow breath. And then he looked at Dorian, and said as levelly as he could, "Well, you see, I got rather drunk with some friends of mine."

Dorian tilted his head. "Did you now?"

"Indeed," Cullen agreed. "And one of them was kind enough to help me back to my quarters afterward, and I—suppose I rather threw myself at him, really, but luckily he didn't seem to mind."

Dorian had nodded along for the first few words, just listening. And then his brows had drawn down, and he'd gone very still over Cullen, looking down at him, bright-eyed, silent.

He swallowed, when Cullen was done, and looked away; his hands tightened on Cullen's hips. And then he looked back at Cullen, reached up and smoothed careful fingers through Cullen's hair, and murmured, "I suppose we could adapt it a bit, if we liked."

"Oh?"

"Mmhmm." Dorian pursed his mouth up, a deliberate show of thoughtfulness. "For example—Templar initiate. From the south," he added. "For flavor."

"For flavor," Cullen agreed, heart pounding.

"On patrol, let's say. Looking for mages. Unauthorized, you know." Dorian waved a hand. "Wandering about."

Cullen swallowed. "And do I—does he find one?"

"Indeed he does," Dorian said, with an authoritative nod. "Some foolish young idealist, all the way from Tevinter. Arrogant, smug, stubborn. Full of himself. Very irritating."

Cullen bit his lip, and met Dorian's eyes. "Good match, then," he dared to say.

"You think so?"

"Oh, certainly," Cullen said softly. "The Templar initiate's probably rather full of himself, too. Pompous, certain of himself and his duty—self-righteous, unforgiving."

And oh, Dorian was watching him with such a peculiar look just then: gentle, and intent.

He didn't understand, Cullen thought. He didn't understand. But he ought to.

"He'd take the Tevinter mage-student into custody, of course," Cullen made himself say. "Nullify anything he tried, and drag him back in chains. If anybody knew he was gone, if there were anyone back in Tevinter to be contacted—"

He cut himself off.

Dorian had taken on a faraway expression, cool and unreadable. "I was going to say it was hardly likely he'd say so, even if he felt there were," he said quietly. "But—long enough ago, when he was still young, I suppose there might have been. There might have been, back then."

"Well," Cullen said, "perhaps he'd have been all right, in that case. Perhaps someone would have come for him, and taken him home."

"And if they hadn't?"

Cullen closed his eyes. "Hard to say, really. Someone would have had to take charge of him; some of the Circles aren't so bad." He swallowed hard; it hurt, his throat tight. "But the Templar initiate—"

"Yes?" Dorian said, after the quiet had stretched a little.

"The Templar initiate would have hated him," Cullen said, very low, and squeezed his eyes shut tighter. "The Templar initiate would have despised him. Would probably have wanted him Tranquil, or worse—"

"Cullen," Dorian murmured, and he'd leaned in close; Cullen still wasn't looking, couldn't make himself, but he could feel Dorian's warmth, the motion of breath against the shell of his ear. "Cullen, it's just a story."

Cullen bit his lip hard, and didn't answer.

"It's a story," Dorian said again. "Not a lie. A story. Tell it. Tell it any way you want to." A thumb smoothed its way along Cullen's cheek, his jaw, gentle, soothing. "You get to pick. All right? You get to pick, now."

Cullen breathed, in and then out. He made himself feel the bed beneath him, the blankets pooled around them, and Dorian—Dorian's long legs tangled with his, and Dorian's elbow pressing in just by his shoulder as Dorian leaned in over him, and Dorian's hand against his face.

And then he opened his eyes again, and looked at Dorian, and let himself wish.

"I'd—never have seen anyone like you before," he said aloud, halting.

And Dorian looked down at him with impossible warmth, and smiled. "You wouldn't?"

"No. No, of course not. I'd never have seen anyone like you before, and I wouldn't have been able to look away. I'd—" He stopped, caught himself, heart tripping in his chest; but it was just a story. It was just a story, and he was allowed to tell it the way he wanted to. "I'd have thought you were brilliant. I'd have thought you were beautiful. If I'd learned you liked board games—you'd never have been rid of me. I'd have played them with you twice a day, if I could."

Something odd was passing across Dorian's face, something Cullen wasn't sure he could name: his mouth had parted, and his eyes had narrowed a little, and a sort of—a sort of light had come into them, almost hard to look at.

But he didn't interrupt.

Which was good, because Cullen wasn't sure he could stop now if he wanted to.

"I'd know perfectly well you were too clever for me. Too clever, too fine. And a mage, and I'd be—I wouldn't know what to think about that, or what to do. But I'd want you anyway. I'd want you so much I wouldn't be able to think about anything else. And I'd know it would be a mistake to touch you, but—"

"But," Dorian murmured.

"But I'd let myself make it anyway," Cullen whispered, "if it meant I could have you, even for a little while."

Dorian was silent, for a minute.

"You could," he said at last, and moved his hand—touched Cullen's mouth, almost absent, thumb stroking along the scar. "Have had me, I mean. For the asking, for the telling; for just about anything, I suspect."

Cullen blinked. And Dorian smiled at him, half his mouth, wry and slanted.

"I'd have been so far from Tevinter," Dorian added, more quietly. "I'd never have been that far from home before. I'd have been so lonely—no idea what was going to happen, and a stranger everywhere I went, and everybody suspicious of me all the time." He stopped, and cleared his throat a little. "I'd have been desperately glad to find someone I could play board games with. I'd have played them with you _three_ times a day, if I thought it wouldn't drive you mad." He stopped again. "I'd have wanted you so badly I couldn't see straight. Probably."

The smile clung, wavered; faded. They stared at each other, lying there in Cullen's bed, the sky red and gold over them with the last light of sunset, through the hole in Cullen's roof.

"I'd have been lonely, too," Cullen heard himself say. "I'd always have been much too concerned with—with doing my duty, with being the best and most loyal Templar I could be, to ever have bothered being kind to anyone, or making friends with anyone. I wouldn't even have known it, not really, not until I met you. I'd have had no idea what I was losing by it, what I was letting pass me by, and that I'd only turn my back on the Order anyway in the end—"

"And I'd have been glad," Dorian said, low and intent, and then leaned down again and kissed him, hard. "I'd have been glad to be special to you, and to know nobody else had gotten as near to you as I had, that nobody else had been let as close. Even if," he added, lighter, "it would obviously have been a dreadful waste of a very beautiful man." He paused then, thoughtful, and tilted his head. "I'd probably have made a nuisance of myself, actually. I'd have hit on you every chance I got, in front of everyone, just to rub their noses in it."

And Cullen couldn't help but laugh a little, then, even if it cracked in the middle.

"I probably wouldn't have believed you meant any of it," he admitted. "But I'd have gotten all—stern and stuffy about it anyway."

Dorian was the one who laughed, after that. And it was soft, and fond, and made something tight and hard in Cullen's chest ease its grip and let itself be soothed.

"I suppose I'd have _had_ to push you into a corner somewhere and do my best to convince you," Dorian said, "just to have any hope of making you understand." He hesitated. "I'd have kissed you, first," he added, in a murmur, and then did exactly that.

And Cullen held still beneath it, the way—the way that lucky Templar initiate he'd never been might have. He held still beneath it and let it happen; moved into it just a little, just as Dorian was about to pull away, belated, as if startled and uncertain.

What would that Templar initiate have said? Cullen turned his face away, as if shy, and it was strange, fascinating, to be so deliberately acting it out—feeling the echoes of it within himself at the same time, as he put himself self-consciously on display for Dorian. "You can't really," he said, putting a stammer in it. "I mean, I—I didn't know that you wanted—"

"Oh, I do," Dorian said to him softly. "I do."

And then Dorian kissed him again, longer, lingering. Simple, too: not using so many of his tricks, the things he usually liked to do with his tongue. The things that that Tevinter mage-student wouldn't have known to try, Cullen thought slowly.

"Dorian," he murmured, against Dorian's mouth.

Dorian drew away, and set his thumb where his lips had been, against the wet curve of Cullen's mouth.

"I'd," he said.

And then he stopped. Cullen watched his throat move.

"I might even have ended up a little bit in love with you," he said, after a moment.

Cullen stared up at him.

"For all the good it would have done me," Dorian added. "Then. As a hypothetical Tevinter mage-student—"

"Dorian," Cullen said unevenly.

"A little bit," Dorian emphasized. "Just a little bit. Though I suppose if we'd gone on doing it, after that first time—which we would have, mind you, because it would have been absolutely fantastic—it might have gotten worse."

"Worse," Cullen repeated.

"More," Dorian said. "More than a little bit. Multiple little bits, adding up."

"But you can't be," Cullen said blankly, and then had to amend hurriedly, "I mean—you couldn't have been, surely. You shouldn't have been."

"Well, of course not," Dorian said, as if affronted that Cullen would think he didn't have the sense to realize as much. "And yet the fact would remain, unfortunately for me."

Cullen opened his mouth, and closed it, and opened it again. He couldn't stop staring at Dorian, at every line and angle of his face, the lovely tempting shape of his mouth, and his eyes, his _eyes_.

And Dorian watched him do it, and then sucked in a sharp, confused breath.

"Wait," he said. "No, surely not. No! You're an _idiot_ ," and this last was bright, wondering. " _I'm_ an idiot. You'd never have said a word, would you?"

"I—"

"Of course you wouldn't have," Dorian said, "you're an idiot," and he laughed, laughed and kissed Cullen at the same time, clumsy and messy, noses bumping. "I should have guessed, of course. Naturally there was no way you'd be able to resist my charms, many and varied as they are—"

"Shut up," Cullen told him, breathless, and pulled him down to kiss him again.


End file.
